


Hour to Hour, Note to Note

by archipelago



Series: At Seventeen 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Being Closeted, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Discussions of War, Drug Use, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, John in the Army, M/M, Minor Character Death, Offscreen Violence, Smoking, Teenlock, Unilock, aka i can't write violence, everyone involved in offscreen sex is of age, offscreen death, offscreen sex, pressure to come out of the closet, tags added as story is updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6788050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third and final part of the At Seventeen series.</p><p>It's been a year since the events of The Thorny Path.  John and Sherlock are just as close as they've ever been, despite the physical distance between them. But this year will test not only their friendship, but their individual relationships with those around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third part in the series. You should really read the first parts in order to understand what's happening.
> 
>  
> 
> [At Seventeen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/865115/chapters/1659608)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Thorny Path](http://archiveofourown.org/works/977554/chapters/1923387)

_Hi all,_

_Sorry it’s been a few weeks since I last reached out. I know I swore before that I’d be better about emailing, but I’m a liar. It’s been pretty busy here the past few weeks. There’s been a lot of talk of pulling us out of the country--not my unit specifically, but the army in the general sense. The US soldiers are all excited that we might go down to a minimal presence, and if they go, I can’t imagine most of us will stay much longer, either…_

_Of course, this is all rumour and speculation. Nothing founded. I’ve heard something similar about a hundred times in the past six months, but I have to say, it’d be nice if it were true. We’ll see._

_Other than that, not much has happened (at least not much I can really talk about). It’s hot and sandy, and I’ve made friends with a stray dog that now hangs around base all the time. Got in a bit of trouble about that, actually. Oops._

_Hope all is well back home. I can’t wait to see everyone in a few months’ time._

_John_

 

_John,_

_I know you’ve heard rumours like that before, so I’m trying (and failing) not to get my hopes up...but it’s hard not to. I kind of miss you. Sort of. A wee bit._

_School’s going well--same old, same old. Do you remember my friend Janine? You two met briefly before you left on your tour, but it was only the once, so she might have slipped your mind. Her loser of a roommate broke his lease and moved out, and she needed someone to move in as soon as possible, so...guess who is now renting in London? Bloody expensive, but worth it. And Janine’s great. She’s such a doll. You’ll have to tell me if you have any strapping, single soldier friends who are looking for a cute girl. She is definitely on the prowl. There’s no other word for it but prowling, honestly._

_My coursework is easy enough, and I’m excited to start my clinicals in a real hospital in a few months. It seems eons away now, but I’m sure it’ll fly by. Soon I’ll be complaining to you about how I don’t know where the time has gone._

_I wish you could tell me more about what’s going on in your head, and how you’re feeling. I know you need to compartmentalize, and I respect that, but please don’t forget that I’m always here for you. Or talk to Sherlock, if you need someone and I’m not around. I can’t imagine he’d be the most helpful, but he cares so much, in his own way. He’d do what he could._

_In other news, I’m going to need you to work a bit harder on that whole teleportation thing, as it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and I’m really put out about it. Have you made any progress yet?_

_I love you. Stay safe. Please._

_Yours,  
Mary_

 

_God, I miss you._

_If all goes well I should have time to Skype in a few days? I’m thinking Thursday is best for me, but I know you have class then. And don’t say you’ll skip class so we can talk. No one wants a nurse who didn’t go to her classes. It’s just common sense._

_I expect you to hold me to the same standards when I get back home for good. I’m pretty sure people don’t want a lazy surgeon, either._

_Have to go, but I saw you answered straight away, and I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you._

_Love you,  
John_

_P.S. Don’t blame me for the lack of teleportation. I put Sherlock on it weeks ago, but the sod’s not done a damned thing about it._

 

_Hi Johnny!_

_Mum won’t get me a new Playstation because our old one is yours and she says it works fine but it’s not as good as the new one! Please tell Mum you don’t mind if we get rid of your Playstation. You can play with the new one, I promise._

_Love Harry_

 

_Harry, you need to stop trying to sell all of my possessions._

_I’m going to call Mum in a few days, and if you’ve told her I said you could sell the Playstation, so help me._

_Your loving brother,  
John_

 

_John,_

_Everything’s dreadfully boring. Come home and entertain me._

_SH_

 

_I miss you, too, you prat._

_I’m hoping to have Skype time on Thursday, if you’re available? I would love to catch up, and you can give me the grand tour of your place with Victor. I expect you to walk your laptop through every room so I can see it. Even the bathroom._

_Has Mycroft stopped making noise about paying your share of the rent? You could get a job, you know. Just...not something customer service-related. Or anything in an office, you’d find it too boring and would probably burn the place down in one of your sulks._

_Actually, I take it back. You shouldn’t get a job._

_Let me know about Thursday._

_Love,  
John_

 

_Mycroft complains endlessly, as he is wont to do. I don’t know if he’s still on about rent. Honestly, I tune him out most of the time._

_The place hardly warrants a tour, but I suppose you can have one. Maybe the experiment in the bathroom will be done by then, and I can update you on its progress. I hid it more cleverly this time and Victor has yet to find it. He made me throw out the last one, and I still haven’t forgiven him. It was just a bit of mould. I’ve never seen such an overreaction._

_I will see you on Thursday. Remember that if you have at all exaggerated your well-being, I will be able to tell, and I’ll force Mycoft to invent a reason to have you sent home._

_SH_

_P.S. Why is your girlfriend texting me about teleportation?_

 

_You’re a right lunatic. See you Thursday._

_Love,  
John_

 

Lips on the back of his neck. Sherlock holds still and fights the urge to smile into his pillow like a lovesick fool. He won’t be that ridiculous, he refuses. 

Victor’s mouth forms a smile against his nape. “I know you’re awake, you tosser. You went all tense.”

Sherlock turns and presses his face against Victor’s chest. His sweatshirt has been washed within the past twelve hours; it smells fresh and clean, like soap. Only a little bit of Victor slips through--deodorant and old books and pencil shavings--and Sherlock inhales it all deeply.

“Are you sniffing me?” Victor asks, sounding amused.

“No,” Sherlock lies. A year ago, he would have been mortified to have been caught doing anything so sentimental as this--lying in bed with someone he cares about, comforted by their scent. Somehow, all the banalities of love that used to annoy him have become endearing, familiar. How...average. If he weren’t so content, he’d be miserable.

Instead of dignifying Sherlock’s lie with a response, Victor draws him close, until their limbs are entangled, and it’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. His hand moves in a steady pattern around on Sherlock’s back, and his touch is warm.

“I have to get up soon,” Victor murmurs. He speaks so low that Sherlock wonders if it’s possible to get away with pretending he didn’t hear. It is cold outside and Victor is warm, and who wants to go to class, anyway?

Despite the fact that Sherlock doesn’t voice any of these thoughts, Victor seems to hear them in Sherlock’s silence. He sighs and kisses Sherlock right at his hairline. “These are my last few months of uni. I have exams to worry about. If I don’t do well, there’s no way my dad will offer me the job, and--”

Sherlock huffs unhappily and disentangles himself from Victor. He pushes himself out of bed, frowning when his bare feet hit the floor. It’s too cold. It makes him wish he had a really nice dressing gown.

Aren’t fathers supposed to be supportive? Not Sherlock’s own, obviously, but in general. Surely Siger Holmes is the exception that proves the rule. Why can’t Mr. Trevor just give Victor his rightful place in the family business, the place that has been saved for Victor since he was born?

There’s no point in bringing it up. They’ve fought about it loads of times, and it’s never changed anything. Victor insists his dad will never give into the pressures of nepotism--he doesn’t even pay for Victor’s minimal school costs, or the rent on his apartment. Every time Sherlock gets a check from Mycroft in the mail, Victor stares at it with envious eyes. 

Normally, Sherlock isn’t opposed to a good row. But it has been such a pleasant morning, waking up in Victor’s arms, and he doesn’t want to fight. Ever since their big blowout at Darah’s party the year before, he has tried to be more careful, pick his battles. Victor has trouble distinguishing between “I am genuinely angry” and “I am being petulant because I’m bored and will stop if you entertain me.” Most of the time, little spats aren’t worth all the reassuring he has to do afterward.

No one ever thought Sherlock Holmes could learn to bite his tongue. And, well, they’re mostly right. He knows sometimes that he takes things too far, and that Victor swallows down his hurt feelings. So he makes an effort to swallow down his impatience, in turn. That’s what a relationship is, isn’t it? Compromise.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, and he sounds so genuinely regretful that Sherlock mostly forgives him right away. “I promise, once this year is over, things will be different. I’ll have a job, something secure, and you’ll have Cambridge, and everything will be that much easier.”

It’s hard to imagine that Victor spending forty hours a week behind a computer will make spending time together something that happens more naturally, rather than less. Sherlock hates it when Victor does this. It sounds as if he’s trying to placate Sherlock, but in reality, he is trying to placate himself. Victor is clever enough that he shouldn’t be able to fool himself like that, but he always manages. His wilful blindness never fails to annoy.

“Just go,” Sherlock tells him. It’s easier than pointing out the obvious, that Victor wants to believe what he wants to believe. Most people still don’t like it when Sherlock points out what is obvious to him.

Victor makes a sort of pathetic whinging noise that hits Sherlock straight in his chest. He scoots out of bed and moves to stand behind Sherlock, hooking his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. His blonde hair tickles. Victor hasn’t had a haircut in ages.

With his head tucked right up against Sherlock’s ear, he murmurs, “Love you.” 

Then there are those lips again, pressed softly against the side of his neck, and then Victor is gone. 

\--

The screen is fragmented and pixelated, and there’s no sound. The internet can be dodgy, although it has its good days. Figures that when he finally has the time and means to use the computer, it’s acting up. John huffs a sigh, and is about to click out of Skype to see if restarting the program will help it to work better, when Sherlock’s voice comes through.

“--hear me? Hello?”

Relief rushes through John. He bangs against the side of the computer, which doesn’t help anything, but makes him feel a bit better.

“Sherlock, I’m here. Sherlock?”

“John, finally.”

John smiles. “Go on, then.”

He’s had enough of these calls that he knows that before they talk, Sherlock wants to deduce. John likes to think he tells Sherlock everything he can--well, everything Sherlock needs to know, at the very least--but Sherlock seems to think that John is constantly hiding injuries and mental anguish.

It’s difficult to have a best friend who makes it so hard to keep secrets. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it, but it is difficult.

Sherlock’s eyes rake over him, and he’s so still that John isn’t sure if the picture is frozen or if Sherlock is watching him very intently.

Finally, Sherlock says, “You seem well.”

“I could have told you that.”

“Maybe, but I like to see for myself.”

Sherlock never asks about his deployment beyond what he reads in John during these Skype sessions, and John never volunteers much information. It’s better for both of them, that way. Or, well, John thinks it is. He can only guess at Sherlock’s motives. His own, however, seem so glaringly obvious.

War is difficult, and messy, and often boring, and sometimes, in brief flashes of activity, terrifying. It’s all too much to say aloud--John can’t find the words, can’t figure out the way to reduce his experiences into a conversation to be had with someone who can’t understand them.

He’s not sure, as they’ve never discussed it, but he thinks that Sherlock knows that, and that starting each phone call with a minute for deductions is Sherlock’s form of a compromise. He looks at John and sees the things John won’t say, and then he is satisfied.

He wonders, sometimes, if Sherlock knows just how alive he feels here. He’s too ashamed and embarrassed to ask.

John shakes away those thoughts. He refuses to waste any of his precious Skype time on brooding. Instead, he puts on a smile and says, “So, ready for that tour, then?”

Sherlock begrudgingly picks up his laptop and takes it from room to room in his apartment. It’s small, just one bedroom, a living space, a bath. What John likes are the weird touches of Sherlock he can see throughout the place--along with framed photos that John can only assume were put up by Victor, there’s some kind of animal skull wearing headphones, and a knife in the wall, holding last week’s post.

When John points it out, Sherlock hums. “Yes, Victor’s not happy with that particular system.”

“You can plaster over that hole easy enough, though.” 

“Precisely what I said. Only I told Victor he could do it.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls up. “Quite the row, that one.”

Despite himself, John laughs. He often thinks he shouldn’t encourage this kind of behaviour in Sherlock, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Sherlock Holmes will be who he is, and will change for no one. From the fact that the knife is in the wall, Victor has apparently figured that out, as well.

Good.

“And how’s Mary?” Sherlock asks, as he always does, although John suspects that Sherlock doesn’t care one way or another about the answer.

“She’s good, yeah. In class tonight, but I’ll catch her next time.” 

He thinks of his last conversation with her, well over a week ago. It’d been in the morning there, and her hair was wet from the shower. She’d talked as she dried it with a towel, and there’d been something so soothing about it--about her lack of self-consciousness, the casual intimacy of it--that had made his chest go tight with emotion. It was too reductive to simply call it love. It didn’t catch any of the shades of what he’d felt.

God, he wished she’d been able to talk tonight, as well.

“She’s thinking about adopting a cat,” he added. “If her roommate’s okay with it. You should go see her sometime. I think the two of you would really get on.”

Sherlock nodded absently, and John knew that that suggestion was going to be summarily rejected.

“I have to go soon,” Sherlock says. There’s the barest hint of regret in his voice. Anyone who didn’t know him well might not be able to detect it; the fact that John can distinguish it at all means that Sherlock must be more unhappy that he wants to admit.

Before John can reply, Sherlock adds, “When do you get leave?”

“You’ll know when I know,” John says, his standard non-answer that he usually gives to Mary or his family.

Sherlock nods. His non-reaction says more than any sort of temper tantrum ever would.

John sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, and you shouldn’t be,” Sherlock says.

The words hit John like a punch in the gut. He _isn’t_ sorry. Even when guilt gnaws at his gut, he still feels so focused, so alive, so-- _himself._

When John looks at him in surprise, Sherlock smiles, a small but sincere little thing that sits at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll write me the next opportunity you get.”

That last sentence is an order, rather than a question, and John laughs. “Yeah, yeah. My best to Victor. I’ll send you a longer update in the next few days, and you can tell me all about your new experiments.”

Thousands of miles away, Sherlock nods. “Soon.”

“Soon,” John agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock picks up his mobile on the second ring without bothering to check who is calling.

“Little brother,” Mycroft says, voice as even as ever. “So good of you to take my call.”

Immediately, Sherlock regrets all of his choices.

“I don’t have time for this, Mycroft,” he lies. Currently, Sherlock is puttering around with the mould experiment that Victor mistakenly believes he threw out weeks ago. Lucky for Sherlock, his boyfriend is not especially uptight about cleaning.

Mycroft tuts into the phone, a habit Sherlock loathes. It makes him feel like he’s still five years old, instead of nineteen. He’s fairly certain Mycroft knows that, and that’s why he does it. Insufferable.

“I put some money in the mail for you today.”

Sherlock manages a begrudging, “Thank you.”

He knows he should be more gracious to Mycroft. After all, not all older brothers would have taken on all their younger siblings’ expenses. It would be so much easier to be grateful if Mycroft weren’t such a tosser about it, though.

Sherlock suspects that Mycroft is playing some sort of long game, hoping that if he is annoying enough, Sherlock will get a job and take responsibility for his own life. It makes Sherlock want to forward John’s last email, which so succinctly explained why Sherlock isn’t meant for the work force.

He looks at the mould under the microscope, studying its structure with his mobile still pressed to his ear. What is he meant for, then? 

This is the problem with Mycroft’s calls. They make him think about things he’d rather avoid.

“I know you’re very busy,” Mycroft says. Only someone who knows him well would pick up on the snide tone. “But I wanted to see if you were available tonight.”

Sherlock pauses, sits up. “What for?”

There’s the smallest hesitation. Sherlock goes tense.

“I spoke to Mummy, earlier today, and she said she’d like to see you.”

It doesn’t sound like a joke, but it has to be.

Stupidly, the only thing Sherlock is able to say is, “What?”

“Mummy wanted to see if you would be interested in meeting us—her and myself, that is—for dinner,” Mycroft continues. “She’s spoken to Father about it, and although he is not interested in attending, he’s given his blessing for her to go.”

Something hardens inside of Sherlock. “Well, thank goodness we have his _blessing_.” 

“Sherlock…” 

There’s a warning there, weighting down Sherlock’s name, but he has no interest in listening to it.

He can feel the vitriol rising up his throat, the need to spit and tear and thrash against everything that Mycroft has just told him. Anger is hot inside of him; he feels like he’s boiling alive in it. He opens his mouth to let it spew forth, when his phone trills in his ear.

The text alert. The one that sounds only when he’s on a phone call.

He ignores Mycroft’s voice as it begins to come through the speaker again, taking his mobile away from his ear to look down at the screen. On it, there is a text from Victor: _party @ darah’s tonite, y/n_?

He punches in _y_ and heaves a sigh of relief.

Mycroft is still speaking, and Sherlock ignores the steady stream of words. He clears his throat and says, “Sorry. Tell Mummy I’m busy tonight.”

“Busy?” Mycroft sound sceptical. “With what?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock rings off. He lets the phone fall down on the table next to him, just to the right of the microscope. He removes the slide and covers it, putting it on a petri dish and then sliding it back into its hiding spot in the bathroom.

Victor texts him again. _see you there in 1 hr?_

 _Perfect_ , Sherlock thinks. Victor’s timing is impeccable. There are a few things he aims to forget about tonight.

\--

The walk to Darah’s is short. Although he and Victor hadn’t planned to move so close, it’s been a perk. It’s nice to have friends nearby. Victor is studying in the library, according to his latest text, and will be over as soon as he can. It seems like he’s always in the library, or staying up late reading in their living room, or going to his professor’s office hours, or sucking up to his father during their constant phone calls—

As Sherlock turns the corner, he spies Darah’s house. The door is open, despite the fact that it’s freezing outside.

He knows that he ought to be less jealous of Victor’s time, he does. Victor is working so hard because he wants to be part of his father’s shipping company. Maybe it’s because Sherlock has such negative feelings toward his own father, but it’s kind of hard to imagine wanting one man’s approval so badly. 

And, God, does Victor want it. He still wears that watch his father gave him every single day, even though Sherlock _knows_ he doesn’t really like it.

Victor still hasn’t told his father that he’s gay, or that he’s dating Sherlock.

Mr. Trevor has to know. He _has_ to. His son shares a one-bedroom apartment with another man. His son hasn’t dated a girl in over a year.

But it’s one thing to know, and another to be told, and it drives Sherlock around the bend that Victor won’t tell.

He hops up the porch steps, crossing over the threshold without knocking. As soon as he’s inside, Sherlock understands why the door is open: the entire place smells like burning food. Somewhere inside, he can hear Darah cursing.

“—sure it’s fine,” says Tom, as Sherlock walks down the hall, taking the time to hang up his coat in the hall closet as he goes. He’s been here enough that he doesn’t feel the need to ask—not that he would, anyway, but it’s nice to be on the right side of politeness, every now and again.

He walks into the kitchen, where Darah is holding a baking sheet of biscuits, burnt black.

“They’re ruined, Tom, okay? I know, you know it. You don’t have to humour me.”

She puts the metal sheet down on the stovetop with a bit too much force.

“Come on, sweetheart…” Tom tries again, but Darah cuts him off with a glare.

The two of them have only been dating a few months. Sherlock watched it happening at the beginning of the new school year, secretly glad that Darah was finally moving beyond her crush on Victor. Victor was glad, too, although Sherlock knows he’d never admit it.

“Sherlock,” Darah says, noticing him in the doorway of the kitchen. She pulls off her oven mitts and drops them on the counter, and then crosses the room to engulf him in a hug. As much as he likes Darah, he wishes she didn’t feel compelled to do that.

Tom nods at him over Darah’s shoulder. “Hey, mate.”

“I’m early,” Sherlock says. No one else in the room, no other noises coming from upstairs. “Victor told me it started fifteen minutes ago.”

Darah frowns, and fishes in her pocket for her mobile. She scrolls through something on the screen—presumably her texts with Victor—and then shakes her head. “I’m an idiot. I gave him the wrong time and didn’t realize. Well, that’s fine. You’re always welcome.”

Tom edges past the two of them. “I’ll just go close the front door, shall I?” A moment later, he calls out. “Sherlock, your better half has arrived!”

Sherlock smiles despite himself. 

He turns and pokes his head back out into the hallway, where Tom and Victor are standing before the now-closed front door, laughing with each other as Victor slips off his coat. His hair is tousled from the wind, a blond bird’s nest on top of his head, and his cheeks are pinker than usual. 

He hates and loves the way his heart kicks when he sees Victor standing there. Victor isn’t even doing anything special—he’s just _existing_ , and Sherlock can barely take it.

Darah pokes him in the side, and Sherlock jumps. He turns to glare at her, and she’s grinning.

“You’ve got it so bad,” she teases.

He sticks his tongue out at her instead of denying it.

What’s to deny? Even someone as unskilled in deduction as Darah can see the evidence. He thought he’d grow out of this, with time, but it’s been strangely persistent.

When Victor looks up and sees Sherlock watching him from the other end of the hall, he smiles, all excitement and white teeth.

Every time Victor looks at him like that, it’s easy to remember why this is all worth it: the long nights without him there, his hesitance to tell his father about them. Those things only hurt when Victor’s not around to give him one of those smiles. 

Darah brushes by Sherlock to give Victor a hug, whispers something in Victor’s ear that makes him laugh. And then Victor is coming down the hall to him, and his arms are around Sherlock’s shoulders, squeezing him tight, and Sherlock finds it’s too hard to be annoyed.

Things will get better. Things will change. All he needs to do is to give it time. 

“We had the wrong time,” Sherlock mumbles into Victor’s shoulder.

Victor ignores that. “Missed you,” he says, holding Sherlock a little tighter. Then he takes a step back, looking over his shoulder at Tom and Darah. “Now, I’m told that there’s an emergency baking situation, and it definitely smells like it.”

\--

The party gets underway within the hour, and the biscuits that Victor makes are gone within five minutes of it starting.

Parties at Darah’s don’t hold the best memories for Sherlock, but he tries to ignore that, for Victor’s sake. They are sitting on the love seat, a few inches between them. Even though they aren’t touching, Sherlock is keenly aware of every inch of Victor, of the way he’s turned toward a classmate of Tom’s as the pair of them discuss telly, of the way his right ankle rests on his left knee, of his hand wrapped around a bottle of beer.

Sherlock isn’t speaking to anyone because he’s found that’s the way everyone else at parties prefers it. Usually, he talks to Victor, but Victor is—well, not ignoring him, per se, but definitely not paying him all that much attention.

He sighs and flops across the love seat, throwing his legs across Victor’s lap. Victor pushes them down on the ground, breaking out of his conversation to roll his eyes at Sherlock.

“Come on, don’t be a brat.”

But Sherlock _wants_ to be a brat. Or, well, he wants Victor’s undivided attention, and he’s willing to be a brat to get it. 

“I haven’t seen you all day,” he pouts. 

Tom’s friend— _name unknown, but he’s a virgin, and questioning his sexuality, and testing it out on Victor_ —gives an awkward smile and turns to the person on his other side.

Victor gives him an exasperated look.

“Sherlock…” He whispers so that his voice won’t carry. “That guy, Frank—his parents use my father’s company to ship their products. That would have been a good contact for me to make.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say, really, no defence he could reasonably mount. And what’s worse—Victor doesn’t even sound mad. He just sounds disappointed. Guilt squirms in Sherlock’s gut. He sits up straight so that his legs aren’t in Victor’s space.

“Oh, don’t…” Now _Victor_ looks guilty. He leans over to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I know it’s been difficult, lately. But in a few months, all this school stuff will be over. Then it’ll just be you and me, I promise.”

But it’s a false promise because Victor _won’t tell his damn father about them_. The end of the school year isn’t the solution to all of their problems—it’s just another problem.

The words are on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but he bites them back. Now is not the time. He can’t make another scene at one of Darah’s parties. He and Victor will never be invited back.

In his pocket, Sherlock’s mobile chimes. He takes it out and looks at the screen: a text from John. The only time Sherlock hasn’t hated Mycroft’s meddling was when his older brother got John an international mobile phone and cleared it with his superiors.

_if war is hell then hell must be exceptionally dull 99% of the time._

Sherlock smiles at the words on the screen and considers his reply.

To his right, Victor sighs.

“Still jealous?” Sherlock says, just to be an ass. He knows he shouldn’t push the issue. Victor swears he likes John, and he does, in his own way. It doesn’t stop him from being truly, epically jealous, though. The mistakes Sherlock made the first time he and Victor tried for a relationship—namely, still being hung up on John—has left the kind of rift that no amount of goodwill can completely fill.

Victor is jealous. Not horribly so, not so much that it means he can’t be polite, or would do something as idiotic as requesting Sherlock not talk to John. All the same, that feeling is always there, simmering in the background.

“I’m not jealous. Why do you have to do that, try and goad me?” Victor asks, sinking back into the couch cushions. “We could be having a nice night, you know. You, me, a party…”

“I don’t know why I come to these things. These are your friends, not mine.” Sherlock shoves his mobile back in his pocket without replying.

“Darah’s your friend.”

“She is the exception that proves the rule.”

There’s a line forming between Victor’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand why we’re fighting. Or even if we’re fighting. Are we fighting?”

Sherlock thumbs over the crease in Victor’s forehead, watches it disappear. “I don’t want to be.”

“Then can we stop picking at each other and just have fun? Please?”

Most of Sherlock wants to say yes, but part of him wants to be petulant and say no. He wants to go home with Victor and sleep curled up together, without Victor feeling like he needs to slip away and study until the early hours of the morning. He wants to be with Victor at a party without it being a networking opportunity.

But he doesn’t want to fight, either.

“I think that,” he begins, before some stoned idiot trips over his outstretched feet.

The stoned idiot looks up, his eyes too wide and twitchy. “Sorry, mate.”

“What are you on?” Sherlock asks, eyes scanning. The stranger can’t keep still. “Cocaine?”

“Sherlock…” Victor uses his responsible voice, but he doesn’t sound—completely opposed.

As he gets to his feet, the stoned idiot sticks a hand in his pocket. “I ain’t got much left, but I’ll sell it to you.”

Sherlock looks at Victor, who looks back at him.

“If we do this,” Victor says, still trying to sound like he’s being the adult when really he’s just as eager as Sherlock himself. “Do you promise to be less of a prat?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shoots back, “Do you?”

Victor smiles—not a full smile, not the one from the hallway, but something. It eases the unpleasantness Sherlock could feel building inside of him.

“All right,” Victor concedes, pulling out his wallet. “How much?”

\--

It’s hours later before Sherlock remembers John’s text. They left the party while still high as kites and walked home, giggling the whole way and then falling into bed. He’s not as high as he was, his body clinging to those last few remnants of euphoria, where the world is still moving nearly as quickly as his brain and everything feels easier.

Victor’s asleep beside him, his arm thrown across Sherlock’s middle, his head pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder. It feels nice, to be together like this. It feels like love.

 _God, I’m maudlin when I’m high_ , Sherlock thinks.

He extricates himself from Victor’s grasp and leans out of bed to grab his discarded jeans from the floor. HIs mobile is still in the pocket, and he gets it out, throwing his trousers across the room as soon as he’s done with them. There are two more texts from John.

_what no witty reply?_

_damn, you must be busy. :(_

Sherlock frowns, and then writes back. _Was at a party. Sorry to have missed you. Talk soon? SH_

He waits for a reply, but it must not be a good time in Afghanistan because he falls asleep before one ever comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hello on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, lovelies. i moved last weekend, which is a really great way to throw off the rhythm of your entire life. things are starting to calm down. should have chapter 4 up on time (barring catastrophe and/or laziness).
> 
> thanks for sticking with me. your messages on tumblr and comments here are always appreciated. :)
> 
> and now: the return of john pov.

John lies in his cot and stares at the ceiling, guilt gnawing at his stomach.

His muscles feel heavy with fatigue, and he can smell himself. He knows he needs a shower, but he can’t seem to make his legs move, make his arms push him up. Every time he tries, his body screams with protest.

It was a rough day. He and his unit were out at the crack of dawn, looking into suspicious activity a few miles outside of town. Possible IEDs—no one’s idea of a good time. They have an explosives specialist who was able to find one and deactivate it, but not before they drew the attention of some seriously unhappy men with guns.

John knows he shot at someone. He knows he hit them. He can’t be positive about what happened after that, but he is all the same.

He doesn’t feel good about it—he didn’t come here to shoot anyone, he doesn’t want to—but he doesn’t feel as bad about it as he expected he would. There have been other fire fights, other exchanges of bullets over hot sand, and he’s made it through each knowing he could have killed someone. The difference is, he’s never known for sure before.

After that fight, he’s pretty sure. All but positive, really. And it’s not so much what he’s feeling that bothers him as what he isn’t.

John wants to be a doctor, he wants to help people. And he came here to help, but he also came here to protect his own unit as they try to help. It’s just that nothing is as clear cut as he would like it to be. The moral ground upon which this war is being fought is much more grey than he always thought.

He ought to talk to someone, he knows. He may not want to work in the mental health field, but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of its existence. There are things he ought to say before they fester. The problem is, he doesn’t know what these things are, or how to give them a voice, let alone who can possibly listen.

The other men in his unit? They might understand, but they’re dealing with it, as well. He’s younger than most, and they already look out for him. He wants to prove to them that he’s just as strong, as sure, as able.

His parents are nervous about him being here, which is something he likes to pretend he doesn’t realize whenever he talks to them. He keeps it light, as much as he can. And Mary? She would get it, being from a military family, but some part of him doesn’t want to talk to her about it. She’s a good thing in his life, a nice thing, and he doesn’t want the war to touch her, to mark her with its dirty hands.

 _Sherlock would understand_ , he thinks. And if anyone would—but Sherlock has his own life to worry about, with Victor and classes and parties. John had texted him a few nights previous and hadn’t heard back from him until the morning. That’s never happened before. Sherlock’s usually glued to his mobile; he’s practically married to the thing. He likes to text.

It’s a stupid thing to be jealous about because it’s nothing tangible. He’s jealous of, what? Sherlock’s time and attention? That’s ridiculous, and John knows it. It just don’t feel ridiculous at the moment because he’s being maudlin.

Sherlock would kill him if he knew that was the way he was thinking—they all would, really. Mary is always saying that he can tell her anything— _anything, John, really, you know it will never change how I feel about you_ —and his parents would suffer through as many hard conversations as he needed to have, if he asked.

But he hasn’t asked, and he won’t. He’s not sure why. It doesn’t feel like there are words that can easily describe everything he’s feeling and experiencing.

Someone comes into the room, kicks one of the legs of his bunk.

John looks over and resists the urge to squirm when he sees who it is.

Casually, he says, “Hey.”

“How are you feeling?” Sholto asks. He sits himself down at the end of John’s bed, next to John’s feet. “I know today was not easy.”

John colours, despite himself. He’s long suspected that the other guys in his unit are worried about him because he’s so young. He’s tried not to talk about how he’s feeling, to assure them. It’s not really working, he can tell, but he isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to do.

Off to his right, Jones is sleeping and Arnold is fiddling with an old letter from his girlfriend. He keeps it folded up in his pocket, most days, and gets it out whenever he is feeling down. John thinks it’s sweet, although he’d never say that aloud. Mary hasn’t sent him a handwritten letter since he first got there, although she emails him all the time. Still, it’d be nice to have something tangible to hold when he misses her.

Or when he doesn’t.

John looks at Sholto and then looks away quickly, pushing himself up.

“I’m okay,” John says. He swings his legs over so that he’s sitting next to Sholto, not facing him directly.

Sholto frowns at John, considering. He’s older—not too much, five or six years, maybe, but he projects a quiet confidence, a competence that makes John feel like a kid playing army.

“Watson.” Sholto sounds careful, like he’s thinking about every syllable. “Do you need to—“

There’s no way to end that sentence that John wants to hear, so he shakes his head abruptly. “Don’t. Please—don’t.”

Mercifully, Sholto listens. He stops talking, but he doesn’t move away. He stays on John’s bed, just sitting, the warmth of his leg bleeding into John’s own. Neither of them move away, or speak. Something about it makes a lump rise in John’s throat, and he hastily swallows it down.

When he chances a glance at Sholto, his brows are drawn together, and he’s staring at the floor, at his own well-kept boots. Sholto is meticulous about his boots and uniform. Everyone is—or, well, everyone is supposed to be—but Sholto just cares. He reminds John of Sherlock, in that way, with the way he cares about all the little details.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. It never feels awkward or strange. In a way, this is the closest he’s felt to anyone since he got to Afghanistan, and he hasn’t said a word.

With a sigh, Sholto gets to his feet. “You did good today, Watson.”

John nods. There’s nothing else to do, really. None of his men died. Most men would consider that a good day.

“Thanks,” he says, watching as Sholto makes his way out of the room.

For a reason that John can’t name, he feels both calmer and more unsettled simultaneously. The upsets of earlier today are no longer sitting on his shoulders like physical weights, but the relief is accompanied by some light thing in his stomach that feels very close to guilt.

He grabs his mobile and rolls onto his back, opening his texts.

Mary’s name appears first. He scrolls through their recent conversation—she sent him a few pictures of her new apartment, and of her friend Janine. There’s one of Mary, pretending to pout at the camera, the corner of her mouth curved up like she’s just starting to laugh.

John sends her a quick message. _Hey there. Thinking about you._

The reply is so quick that he feels guilty without knowing why. _Oh really? What a coincidence._

_You were thinking about me?_

_Nope, I was thinking about me, too._

He smiles at his screen. _You’re a riot._

There’s a pause—a long one. He lets the phone fall next to his head on the pillow and spends a few moments contemplating the ceiling before he finally gets another message.

_You okay, love? You seem…off._

John’s heart clenches painfully in his chest because he should tell her, he should open up to her. Mary knows him so well, so intuitively. He looks back at their last few texts and can’t see any indication that he was having a bad day, and yet she read it easily—read him easily. Why does he have this tendency to fall in love with people who treat him like an open book?

He feels guilty—which is ridiculous, he doesn’t owe Mary any sort of conversation. She certainly doesn’t think he does, either. Part of him wonders if this feeling is coming from something else, but he shies away from the thought.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to investigate, nothing to think about.

 _It was a hard day,_ he writes, before quickly adding: _I don’t want to talk about it, really. Just wanted to hear from you._

_I’m sorry. :( I won’t push you to talk, but I’m here if you need me, okay?_

Mary: there when he needs her. She’s so solid, so strong—he can lean on her, if he needs to. He doesn’t know where his head is at, but he knows wherever it lands, she’ll be there. Everything in his life has been so chaotic and messy; it’s nice to have someone dependable. Refreshing.

 _I love you_. He does, he really does. Skype soon?

She texts him a string of happy faces, and it makes him smile. Outside the sun is setting, and another day is over. On his way out the door, Arnold leans over flicks John on the head.

“C’mon, Watson. Mess hall. Dinner.”

John takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. HIs legs feel steadier than he would have expected. He can do this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Just a few quick notes:  
> 1\. Sorry for the delay on posting! I spent my Sunday being gloriously lazy. :)  
> 2\. The other day, I got a rude comment on this story. Some readers took it upon themselves to defend me, so I want to make this clear: should this happen in the future, please don’t harass the person who posted that comment. Please don’t respond at all. There’s no reason to. I was not upset or offended by what this person said, the gist of which was: hey, your story isn’t very popular. I’m not in the habit of being offended by the truth. If I only wrote for the sake of gaining popularity, I would be sorely disappointed in this story (and, in truth, the entire series). Instead, during the course of writing this series, I’ve made some friends, had some fun, and become a better writer—all while working on a project I enjoy. As far as I’m concerned, if anyone else enjoys reading it, that’s a perk, not the goal.

Under the table, Sherlock texts John: _The things I do for you. SH_

He’s not expecting a text back, which is good because he does not get one. Across the table, Mary smiles at him. It looks genuine enough; she’s not secretly grimacing, her eyes never travel toward the door and flit around the coffee shop. She’s focused, attentive, polite.

“Thanks for meeting,” she says, for the second time since they sat down. “My roommate’s boyfriend goes to Cambridge, and she invited me along with her for the day, so I thought we could catch up.”

Mary takes a sip of her tea and sets her cup back on the saucer, leaning into her chair. When she’d texted him earlier that day asking if he’d like to get a cuppa with her, he’d assumed she’d meant at some point in the distant future. Possibly never. He’d agreed with that in mind, and also because he knew John would like it. John was forever insisting that he didn’t understand why Sherlock and Mary weren’t better friends.

He hadn’t expected to hear back from Mary at all. And yet, three hours later, she was in Cambridge, calling to confirm with him where the best place to meet would be.

It’s not that he dislikes Mary—indeed, she’s far less annoying than most people in the world. Sherlock even suspects that she’s far cleverer than she likes to let on; not that she pretends to be stupid, but she knows what to say and what not to say, depending on whose company she is in. He overheard her talking to the barista at the counter five minutes earlier, playing up her wonder at the Cambridge campus, her wish to someday attend university here, and she’d been given a free pastry for her efforts.

Sherlock knows—because John is exceedingly proud and has boasted on more than one occasion—that Mary is second in her class at her own university. She has no plans to transfer schools, but if she did, she could easily attend any university she wanted.

There’s a kind of cunning in Mary’s brilliance, and Sherlock likes it immensely.

Still, he’s perfectly happy to let his admiration come from afar because, as they sit across from each other and the silence stretches longer and longer, Sherlock is aware that their list of commonalities is very short. It is mostly comprised in their mutual interest in John, and without John there, conversation in stilted.

Sherlock scans Mary, trying to think of something to say. Bit of something on her sleeve—she probably on the train, dabbed at her mouth without thinking. Hair is in perfect order, even though it’s windy outside. She probably restyled it in the bathroom while waiting for him to arrive. Her bag is open, showing a peek of her wallet and a packet of unopened tissues.

He frowns. “Is you friend breaking up with her boyfriend?”

Mary’s brows draw together in confusion for just a moment before a grin overtakes her face. “You know, I’m almost used to you doing that, now. Go on, then. How’d you know?”

“You came up to Cambridge for the day with a friend so she can see her boyfriend. Odd, to invite someone along on a trip of a romantic nature. And she only plans to stay for the day, not the weekend? Also, there are new tissues in your bag—she’s ending a relationship and needed some moral support.”

Mary shakes her head, still smiling. “God, the first few times John told me about your—deduction, yes? Right, deduction—I thought that is had to be impossible. John was surely exaggerating. No one can do something like that.” Mary shrugs. “And yet.”

He tries not to preen a little. Usually, his showing off is only appreciated by John or Victor. He likes being impressive, though. He straightens in his seat.

“I’m not very good company for wasting time,” he tells her. Another deduction, although an easy one. She needs something to do while waiting for her friend to finish breaking it off with her boyfriend. Sherlock lives in town. It all makes sense.

Mary rolls her eyes. “Oh, Sherlock. You act like I don’t like you.”

It’d never occurred to him that Mary might like him.

He must look surprised because she frowns, suddenly, and scoots her chair around the table. She slings an arm over his back—not a form of affection he enjoys, but he allows it—and digs around in her purse for her phone, holding it out and pressing her face close to his.

“Come on,” she says. “Smile for John.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but—well, if it’s for John.

\--

Hours later, Victor is in the kitchen, dumping soy sauce on what can kindly be called a stir fry. Victor is no good in the kitchen, but he doesn’t trust Sherlock there, either. Sherlock insists that that’s insane, as he’s a chemist and therefore very capable of a little cooking, but they both know it has less to do with ability and more to do with the fact that Victor found a bag of human toes in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator once.

Once. He’d made friends—well, sort of—with a medical student. The toes had been interesting, dammit.

“And you hung out with her all day? Willingly?” Victor sounds skeptical.

“Well, she hardly had a gun at my head.”

There are the sounds of Victor plating the meal and bringing it over to the table. Sherlock likes the kitchen table—it doesn’t match any of the chairs, and none of the chairs match each other, and the whole thing looks like madness while functioning exactly as a kitchen table and chairs ought to.

“That’s not what I meant, you arse,” Victor says, playful. He sets down Sherlock’s dinner and begins to dig into his own, wincing a bit. “I think I undercooked the vegetables again. Sorry.”

Sherlock takes a bite and swallows without thinking. The vegetables _are_ undercooked, but he’s not hungry enough to care. He’ll probably only have a little, anyway.

“Do you have exams coming up?” Sherlock asks.

He is very aware that Victor has no large exams or projects due within the next week. He looked in Victor’s diary two days ago, which he knows he ought not to do, but it’s Victor’s fault, really, for leaving it out in the open like that. If he doesn’t want Sherlock to know his schedule, he should be more secretive.

Not that it would really help, but still.

Victor shakes his head. “I think this is the first weekend I have free since the semester started.” He smiles a bit, like he knows that Sherlock only asked because he already knew the answer to his question. “Why? Any ideas of what we could do?”

“What about that club we went to last year?” They’d had their first kiss there. In hindsight, that kiss was a terrible idea, but Sherlock chose not to focus on that part. “You could invite your friends, if you want.”

“I really ought to take advantage of the free weekend…” Victor starts, but then he shakes his head. “Nah, you’re right. I’ve nothing on the next few days. We should have some actual fun. I’ll text Darah, shall I?”

“I already did,” Sherlock says, smiling when Victor rolls his eyes. He produces his phone, the text from Darah already open on the screen: _are you seriously asking if I want to go to the gay club to dance like the answer isn’t going to be an absolute YES?????_

“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes, but the movement is happy, rather than exasperated. He shovels in another forkful of stir fry and then sets down his fork. “All right, this is inedible. I’m going to order take away. Thai?”

“Sure.”

Victor stands and circles the table, stopping only to press an absent kiss to Sherlock’s head. “Sorry I haven’t been around as much lately. Thanks for planning some fun, love. I think I need it more than I know.”

Sherlock tilts his head back and puts his hand on the back of Victor’s neck, tugging him down into a kiss. Victor’s mouth moves against his, sucking lightly at Sherlock’s bottom lip.

It’s so nice, when it’s just like this. It’s hard to fight when one’s mouth is so pleasantly otherwise occupied. Maybe they should talk less, do this more.

Victor pulls away first, his voice husky and low. “Second thought, forget Thai.” He takes a step back, toward the bedroom.

Sherlock smirks. “Yes. Forget Thai.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up late with a really short chapter*

The connection is strong, no lagging or pixelation. Sherlock appears onscreen, and his image is sharp and clear. John smiles, but it feels like a wince. There will be no hiding anything today.

“Something is wrong,” Sherlock says, immediately proving John right.

I’ve killed someone, and I don’t know that I mind so much, John wants to say. Aren’t you supposed to mind?

He can’t stop thinking about it, about the man who was alive and is now dead because of a bullet from John’s gun. That man had had his own gun, John knows. That man had had his own agenda. Still, shouldn’t John be wracked with guilt? He slept fine the night after it happened, and the next morning he’d hardly been able to look at himself in the mirror because of that.

Sholto keeps hovering near John, always on the edge of his vision. He is forever asking John if he’s all right, which John is. He never asks if John is all right with being all right.

“Yeah,” John says. There’s no point in lying to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s eyes scan John’s face, a deep frown on his mouth. “It’s something you don’t want to talk about.”

John nods.

“If you could make sure to get in touch immediately after traumatizing events, I could deduce them without you saying a word,” Sherlock tells him. “That’d be easier for both of us, I expect.”

That startles a laugh out of John. “You’re mad.”

There’s a long pause. Neither of them fill it. John can’t stand to look at Sherlock’s face, for some reason. He stares at his own image, tiny and still in the corner of the screen. He looks tired today.

The door to the barracks suddenly flings open, and Sholto crosses the threshold. He sees John and goes still, mouthing, “Sorry.”

John feels a little flutter or something in his chest. He gives Sherlock a quick smile and looks over the laptop at Sholto, who is already backing out of the room. “It’s fine. See you in the mess in a few?”

Sholto nods. “Yeah, see you.”

John watches him go. Sherlock clears his throat, and John refocuses. Onscreen, Sherlock looks--strangely pinched. His eyes are narrowed.

“John,” he says, disbelief colouring his voice. “You have a _crush_.”

It’s his first instinct to deny it, but John gives up on that plan before he even begins. There’s no point. Sherlock will just talk about the size of his pupils or some other nonsense, and all it will do is confirm yet another thing John has been doing his best to avoid.

And, really--of the deductions Sherlock could have made today, his attraction, or whatever it is, to Sholto is the least of them.

“I still love Mary,” he chooses to say, instead, feeling foolish as the words come tumbling out.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obvious.”

For some reason he’s afraid to name, hearing that makes John feel better. “I know it’s not good, and it’s not like I’ll ever act on it.” He considers his next words. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought, before, that it was you. That you were the...exception, or something.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Sherlock. John must make a face because he quickly adds. “It _is_. Sexuality is rarely black and white, this or that. You have shown that you are capable of finding both men and women attractive. Why wouldn’t you assume it could happen again?”

Everything Sherlock is saying is true, but John frowns all the same. “I just--that’s what I thought. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t straight. Or, well, mostly.”

“You regularly snogged me, and yet you still thought you were _mostly_ straight? You’re far too interesting to be so boring about this. I forbid you from having a crisis.”

John makes a rude gesture. “When you say it like that, I sound like an idiot.”

“An excellent deduction.”

That shouldn’t make John laugh again, but it does. He feels better, now, even though he’s not sure he ought to. A few days ago, a man died because of him, and he’s okay. He’s laughing with his best friend on Skype. They’re talking about his stupid crush, of all things.

Is this denial, or is John really just--fine?

When John refocuses on the computer screen, Sherlock is frowning, his fingertips pressed together.

“That’s not what you’re really worried about, is it. The crush.” It should be a question, but the way he says it, it’s a statement.

John swallows. “No, it isn’t.”

Neither of them say anything. John wonders briefly if he ought to explain, but Sherlock has never denied himself a question in his life. If he has one, then he’ll ask.

“I don’t know anything about war,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing. 

There’s no real answer to that. He’s glad Sherlock is ignorant of all of this--the hours of boredom and terror. He also wishes Sherlock knew everything and could help him. His lesser self wants to be comforted.

He settles on, “Well, thank God for that.”

“I know so much about murder and yet absolutely nothing about war.” Sherlock’s stare is very direct. Even with all the distance between them, John feels it on him like a physical weight. “The two aren’t connected, you see.”

John drops his head, stares at his hands. Days earlier, these hands pulled a trigger. These hands ended a life. Sherlock knows it, too. John doesn’t know how Sherlock knows, and he doesn’t care. He’s just unspeakably glad that Sherlock does.

It feels like absolution, like peace. Someone knows the worst of him and has not flinched away--has done the opposite, in fact. Knowing Sherlock doesn’t hate him makes it that much easier not to hate himself. He’s at war, he did what he had to do.

John takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily. He sounds hoarse when he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Sherlock’s hands fall away from his mouth and resettles in his chair. “Now, if you have a few minutes, I’ve been doing the most remarkable series of experiments on tobacco ash, and I want to tell you about the results.”

That sounds dead boring, but John smiles anyway. “All right, then.”

\--

It’s twenty minutes before John manages to steer the conversation to a close ( _”But cloves, John!”_ ). An email from his mum pops up, and he skims it quickly. It’s nothing urgent--Harry got into a fight with a boy at school, Dad has been working longer hours, she wishes he’d call more. 

Guilt tugs at him, but John marks the email unread and stands up, stretching. He needs to get down to the mess. He tries to think of the last time he called home--it’s been a couple of weeks, at least. His personal calls have all gone to Mary or Sherlock, lately.

He’ll call tomorrow, he tells himself, and then he slips out of the barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief summary: trip to south america!, studying, studying, studying, take horrible test, brief respite, test score two damn points below the "i will take it again if i get below this score" line, consider not taking test again because really the score is more than good enough i'm just an overachiever, resolve to take it again because you said you would archie cmon now, worst month of my entire life, computer unusable for a month, misery mixed with studying, studying, studying, take the freaking test again, hope for the best, and now it's the holidays
> 
> hope everyone is well. happy holidays, y'all!


	6. Chapter 6

“But she’s clearly cheating on you,” Sherlock tells the girl with dyed blond hair. “Can’t you tell by the bracelet?”

The bottle blond catches her girlfriend’s wrist and brings it closer to her face to inspect it. “Where did you get this, Kat?”

The girlfriend--Kat, supposedly--wriggles away. “I told you, it was a Hannukah gift from my parents.”

“Lie,” says Sherlock.

Kat glares at him. “Who the hell are you?”

At that precise moment, arms circle Sherlock’s waist and drag him away from the two bickering girls. Sherlock can feel Victor’s breath on his neck, can smell it. Victor had come home from class with Darah on his arm, and the two of them had dived straight into a bottle of vodka as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Deductions are going to get you killed, love,” Victor says, laughing. He presses up close to Sherlock, dancing a little to blend in with the crowd. Sherlock does not dance back, looking over his shoulder at the girls.

Sherlock shrugs. “They would have broken up eventually, anyway.”

“Still. Maybe this isn’t the time or the place, yeah? Remember, we agreed on less deductions in public?” 

Victor had agreed. Technically, Sherlock had just stood there. He’s doing much the same now, as Victor practically hangs on him. “Dance with me, come on.”

Sherlock volunteered to be the sober one tonight--or, well, the most sober one. They don’t need a designated driver, but nights when everyone goes out tend to end in chaos unless there’s someone capable of rounding up the group when it’s time to head home.

It’s a decision that Sherlock regrets, now, because Victor is drunk and handsy, and at this point it’s more annoying than endearing. Sherlock can’t even distract himself by making deductions, apparently. Or by talking to Darah, who had followed up her vodka with too many shots and is retching in the bathroom, Tom hovering outside the doors like a nervous mother hen. Victor’s friends from his course are all scattered about, but they aren’t approaching Victor because none of them really like Sherlock.

It shouldn’t bother him. If they were people from his own modules, it wouldn’t upset him in the least. He does not have any real interest in being liked. But they’re Victor’s friends--or, at least, that’s what Darah said, she did most of the inviting for this night out--and they’re not talking to Victor. Because of _him_. And that--well, that’s not quite so easy to swallow.

“Distracted, Sherlock?” Victor teases, standing too close. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, he frowns. “I’m sorry I stopped you before. I just didn’t want you to get in the middle of a break up or something. Were you…” He pauses, trying to find the words. “Trying to make friends?”

The idea is patently ridiculous, but Victor is drunk so Sherlock forgives him.

_If only it were that easy_ , he thinks. Sherlock frowns at the floor, studies the sticky mess of spilled alcohol and gum and plastic cups. Someone’s dropped their drugs, and the baggie on the floor is torn open and crushed under so many feet.

It’s a pity, that. 

“You know me,” Sherlock says. His monotone makes Victor laugh. “You know you don’t have to hang around with me all night. Do you want to go speak to some of your friends?”

Victor shrugs. “Like who?”

Sherlock nods in the direction of two girls and a boy, hovering near the bar. He must have met them before, from the way they are not-so-discreetly watching Sherlock and Victor, but now he can’t remember them. Deleted them, then, which means they were boring or pedantic or both. Where does Victor find these people, and how does he stand them?

“That’s--Charlie, and his sister Anna and their friend Joy,” Victor supplies. He has to know that Sherlock doesn’t care, but he shrugs and adds, “Charlie’s in most of my classes, I talk to him all the time.” 

“So?” Sherlock asks.

Victor shrugs. “So I’d rather talk to you.”

It feels nice to hear, but it doesn’t make this situation any easier. Charlie seems to have noticed Sherlock’s gaze and has turned his back toward him and Victor.

He should go. He told Victor they’d go out and blow off steam, dance, have fun--and instead, Victor is now completely isolated because of him. Because Sherlock’s not friendly, or nice, or any of the those things boring people are always going on about.

“Sherlock,” Victor says as he leans in, pressing his forehead into Sherlock’s neck. “I don’t give a shit about any of them, you know? You know that, right? Charlie can piss off, for all I care.”

Sherlock goes still in Victor’s grasp. “What?”

“I’m drunk, not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

Victor smacks Sherlock’s arm. “Stop it, I’m trying to be nice. I can see what’s happening, okay? And I don’t care. I don’t care about any other person here, except you.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “That’s a lie. You care about Darah.”

“Okay, fine. And Darah.”

“And Tom.”

“Oh my god, I’m trying to be romantic, here.” Victor pulls back, grabs Sherlock’s hands in his own. They must look ridiculous, standing in a mass of writhing bodies while holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, but Victor doesn’t seem to mind. He isn’t paying attention to anyone but Sherlock.

He hasn’t paid attention to anyone but Sherlock all night. 

For the first time, Sherlock wonders--what if everyone else isn’t ignoring Victor? What if Victor is ignoring _them_?

“I love you, you know that, right?” Victor says, his voice too soft to hear over the music. Sherlock has to read the words on Victor’s lips. He feels weirdly dizzy as he nods.

Victor winds his arms around Sherlock’s neck, and they stand in the middle of the dance floor, hugging. Unmoving. It ought to feel ridiculous or embarrassing, but instead it just feels--comforting. Sherlock hadn’t realized he needed to be comforted.

“I choose you,” Victor whispers into his ear. “Sod everyone else.”

The words do something to Sherlock’s chest--it feels like it simultaneously expands and collapses. Are his lungs still working? Is his heart still beating? Sherlock isn’t sure. But Victor has him, and Victor--Victor chooses him.

Of course, at that moment, his phone starts vibrating in his front pocket.

Victor snorts. “Is that your mobile or are you happy to see me?”

Alcohol does not improve Victor’s sense of humor. Sherlock rolls his eyes, even though he knows Victor can’t see him. He ignores the phone, unwilling to put space between them to reach it, but the second the call ends, it starts to buzz again.

Victor pulls away. “Go ahead,” he says. He’s smiling, soft and small, and Sherlock hates the way his heart flutters. _Flutters_. Victor’s made him ridiculous, and if he didn’t love him so much, Sherlock is sure he’d hate him for it.

The third call is coming through when Sherlock pulls out his phone. Mycroft’s name is there, onscreen. He nearly hits ignore before he thinks--what if it’s John?

Frowning, Sherlock accepts the call and brings his mobile to his ear. “What?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once upon a time, everything is terrible. no, really, my life is sort of in shambles at the moment. but i got a nice comment on this story yesterday that reminded me that i had most of this chapter already written, so i thought: might as well post it now, while i still can. 
> 
> the next part will hopefully be up soon. i am kind of looking for any and all reasons to pretend my life is not happening right now, and writing seems like as good a distraction as any. i know it all seems viclock heavy right now, but there is a plan. trust the plan. the plan will provide. :)
> 
> you can all blame the next part of the plot on the fabulous sureaintmebabe. she's comes up with all the good ideas in this series, and she always has.


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as his mother hangs up, half-hysterical and begging him to come back, John goes straight to his commanding officer. He gets a lot of grim-faced sympathy and a pat on the shoulder, then he’s told he can have three days of bereavement time. The trip to the UK itself takes nine hours. He tries to think of how long he’ll be at home, then, but finds that his brain won’t cooperate enough to do simple math. It’s like he’s trying to run through waist-high mud.

It doesn’t matter. He could be there three days or three thousand. No amount of time will seem long enough.

When he gets back to barracks, he logs onto his computer to buy a plane ticket to London. In his email, he finds a message from Mycroft with an itinerary already attached, and a short note offering his condolences.

 _I have spoken with your mother,_ it reads, _and offered to cover the costs of the funeral. She has refused, which is a decision I will respect, but should the topic of conversation come up, please let her know the offer stands. Your family has been very kind to my brother, and I would like to do something to be kind to all of you during this tragic time._

_I’m very sorry for your loss, John. Sherlock will be at the airport to pick you up tomorrow evening. Please let me know if you require anything else._

The itinerary is not for a commercial airline, but a private jet service, and it leaves in the morning. The mysteries of Mycroft Holmes are never ending, it seems. John would feel guilty, but his father is dead, so he can’t really feel anything. He’s certain that whatever Mycroft’s done, it will get him home faster than anything else, and that’s what is most important.

Three days.

John goes to bed without eating in the mess hall. When everyone returns from dinner, they all know what’s happened. He isn’t sure how they know, but it’s obvious they do. They tiptoe around his bunk and speak in whispers. Someone leaves a sandwich next to him on the bed, and someone else picks it up and throws it away hours later, when he hasn’t touched it.

His dad is dead. He doesn’t want to eat a sandwich.

Everyone leaves him alone and lets him pretend to sleep. He never does. For seven hours, he lies in his bunk, unmoving. Weariness claws at him, but his eyes won’t close. There are texts coming through his phone, one after another after another, but he doesn’t pick it up. His mum would call, not text, so he knows none of them are from her, and he doesn’t have the words for anyone else.

When the sun starts to rise, John sits up. He dresses and packs a bag. Sholto is already awake and nods to him. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes as he looks at John, and it makes John want to throw up. 

“You going to be okay, Watson?” Sholto asks.

John doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t. He waves goodbye.

\--

The flight is long. The stewardess asks him if he’d like something to drink, and John stares. His mind is still muddled. He cannot think. Does he want a drink? It feels like an impossible question, even though he knows it isn’t. Still, his mouth can’t form the words.

“That’s all right, love,” she says, smiling kindly. She disappears down the aisle and comes back a moment later with a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” John says. When he opens it and takes a sip, he’s surprised to find he’s thirsty.

\--

He steps off the plane and onto the tarmac at Heathrow, and he is then escorted to a terminal. Like he’s the Queen, or a movie star or something. It’s ridiculous, but quick, and a moment later he has his bag and is inside the airport, feeling distinctly lost. He’s somewhere near baggage claim, and he’s not sure how he got there. Everything is so clean and bright. Looking at all of it makes him want to squint, to shield his eyes.

He doesn’t know where to go.

It’s strange, because John knows he _needs_ to go. He needs to get outside, to call Sherlock, but he can’t seem to convince his brain that that requires him to do something. He stands there, staring at the other travelers. He shifts around and shoves his hand in his pocket, retrieving his phone.

78 text messages. He ignores them and goes to his contact list. Sherlock will think for him. He usually does, anyway, even when John doesn’t ask him to.

“John!”

That’s strange, John thinks. He hasn’t dialed yet.

“John!” He hears again.

His brain finally makes the connection, and John turns to see Sherlock running toward him. It’s all the warning he gets before Sherlock is there and his arms are around John, hugging him close. Sherlock is warm, and he still smells the same, like that poncy cologne Mycroft buys him every year that he claims not to like and yet nonetheless wears every day. John stands for a moment, lets himself be engulfed in Sherlock’s coat, in Sherlock’s smell, in the first familiar thing to happen to him since his mother called him last night.

He moves to hug Sherlock back on instinct.

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice raspy to his own ears. “Sherlock, my dad is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, holding John tighter. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

Relief washes over John. Talking is so hard--how did Sherlock know? That’s a stupid question, John thinks. He’s Sherlock--he knows everything.

They disentangle slowly, and John feels Sherlock’s fingers on his cheeks. They’re wet when Sherlock pulls them away. John is confused for a moment, and then realizes he’s been crying. His brain is operating on some sort of lag. Time doesn’t feel real.

He wishes it weren’t.

“We’ll take you to your mum’s house,” Sherlock says, low and soothing. “And I’ve offered to stay for a few days, help ward off nosy neighbors and keep you and Harry busy, things like that.”

“I’m only here three days,” John says. The words feel like mush in his mouth.

“Mycroft’s working on it. I’m sure you’ll have three years of vacation by the time he’s done.”

John shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“I know, I was trying--nevermind. Victor?” Sherlock turns and, oh. Victor is here.

Victor looks well. Embarrassed, a little. Pink-cheeked. He shifts awkwardly on his feet as he waves. “Hi, John. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” says John numbly. He hadn’t expected Victor, even though he supposes he should have. Victor and Sherlock are inseparable. But Victor also hates John, so it seems odd to have him there. Sherlock must not have thought of it. He thinks of everything except for social niceties, like thank you cards or not inviting jealous boyfriends to come along to pick up grieving friends from the airport.

“I, um. I drove.” Victor nods toward the doors. Through them, John can see there are several lanes of traffic, people being picked up, buses, taxis--and farther out, the parking garage. “Can I help you with your bag?”

“You’re not a bellhop, Victor.” Sherlock chastises, but then takes the bag himself and begins to usher John toward the doors, and ostensibly, Victor’s car. He’s talking, but John doesn’t listen, instead taking in the gentle hum of Sherlock’s baritone. Victor trots along behind them, trying to catch up.

“Thanks for being here,” John says as they reach the car and Victor fumbles with his keys. He interrupts Sherlock mid-sentence, but he doesn’t care.

Sherlock frowns, shakes his head. “Of course I’m here.”

John doesn’t say anything else as they all enter the car and drive in silence back to his house.

\--

It’s hours later when John finally manages to look at his phone. He’s been lying on his bed in the dark and listening to Harry cry through their shared wall for the better part of the evening. He wants to comfort her, he knows he should, but he doesn’t know what to say. How can he comfort someone when he himself needs to be comforted? How can he be strong for her when he’s never felt so weak?

John can hear Sherlock’s rumbling voice through the wall, as well, so he stays put. Harry loves Sherlock, and surely John can have this one night at home to grieve before he thinks of everyone else. He feels like he’s on a fast-falling plane, and he needs to put on his own oxygen mask first. 

Instead, he sifts through the messages on his mobile. Most of the hundred or so texts waiting for him are from Mary. He’s surprised to realize it never occurred to him to call her.

He texts her: _Back in London._

Her response is immediate. _Sherlock’s been keeping me updated. I don’t know what to say, John. I’m so sorry, and I love you. Do you want me there? I can be there in thirty minutes._

John curls in on himself. Why do people keep asking him things? He can’t _think_.

Instead of texting, he hits the call button. Mary picks up after the first ring.

“I don’t know,” he says, and is ashamed when his voice breaks. “People keep asking me things, Mary, and I don’t know.”

Mary sounds like she’s been crying, too, which is strange. She never even met John’s dad. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to stress you out.”

“You didn’t. You can’t.” It’s impossible to feel anything right now, he thinks. There’s a yawning cavern inside him, swallowing his every emotion. “I just don’t know.”

“I tell you what,” Mary says, sniffling. “I will come by tomorrow morning, after my class lets out. And if it’s too much, then that’s okay. No pressure. You need to be with your mom and Harry. I just--I want to be there for you.”

“Okay.” It’s easier to agree, rather than think.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“You, too,” he says. They ring off.

He can’t hear Sherlock through the wall anymore, and it sounds like Harry has stopped crying. She must be asleep. He should be asleep, too, but he can’t. He’s so tired, but his body won’t shut down.

His dad is dead. Gone. Never coming back. What was the last thing John ever said to him, he wonders. He hates that he can’t remember. It was probably something stupid, about football or work or the desert. If it hadn’t been stupid, surely John would remember it, right?

John’s bedroom door cracks open. A moment later, Sherlock is beside him on the bed. Not even perched on the edge, but lying down beside him, the warmth from his front radiating against John’s back.

John rolls over to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not letting you sleep alone.”

Sherlock says it like it’s simple, obvious. Part of John feels like he ought to object, but--why? Because of Victor, or Mary? There’s nothing wrong with needing Sherlock right now. He doesn’t feel ashamed of it. There are so many bigger and more important things happening, and John needs his best friend.

“I can’t remember the last thing I said to him,” John confesses. A tear escapes his eye and runs over the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock says nothing, just scoots close so they’re face to face on the bed. He slings an arm over John’s waist. “Just go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Try,” Sherlock says.

John closes his eyes and tries. When he wakes up four hours later, he’s surprised to have succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still grieving the loss of a family member. this chapter was hard to write. the next few will be, as well. sorry for slow updates. i'm very sad, but i'm trying.
> 
> want to write an angry note about victor trevor? may i suggest you read [this post](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/post/159704251465/my-reply-to-people-who-hate-my-fanfiction), where i have already answered most of your complaints.
> 
> want to write a not-angry note about something else? comment or say hello on my [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com).


	8. Chapter 8

“But you’re missing your classes,” Victor whines. It is the fourth time he’s whined since he picked up Sherlock’s call three minutes ago.

Sherlock is glad Victor is not here to see the way he rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about that.”

“You _should_. School is important.”

“ _This_ is important.” Sherlock’s voice comes out like a hiss, and he hates that he’s fighting on the phone with Victor right now instead of doing something useful. It’s the first time they’ve talked in three days, and Victor has done nothing but complain since he picked up his mobile.

The other end of the line is quiet for a moment. Sherlock can hear Victor’s breathing, a little heavier than normal. Victor is feeling emotional, upset. Lonely, probably. Jealous? Sherlock doesn’t want to believe that, but he does, anyway. Victor is always jealous of John, even when he tries not to be.

He does try, though. The thought softens Sherlock a little--but only a little.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he says, turning so his back is against the paneling on the side of the Watson’s house. It’s cold outside, and he wraps his free arm around his middle. The sun went down a few hours ago.

He’d suspected that Victor might be less than understanding that Sherlock had not returned a single text or call in three days, but he’d hoped for a better conversation than this.

Victor sighs. “I don’t want to fight either. But you’ve been away for days, and I miss you, and I--I don’t know if I understand why you’re still there.”

Sherlock tightens his jaw and has to make a conscious effort to relax. “Yes, you do. You just don’t like it.”

There’s another long silence.

“Maybe,” Victor says, sounding a little rough. “I’m not trying to be a prick, Sherlock. I know you really care about all the Watsons, and I know John is your best friend. But I’m sure none of them expect you to put your whole life on hold to take care of them. Just because you’re a genius doesn’t mean you can just skip a week of class without consequence, and--”

“ _Victor_. Stop.”

Victor stops.

“I shouldn’t have called. I knew it was going to be a waste of time.” It’s a cruel thing to say, and Sherlock knows Victor is hurt by it without even needing to see his face. “I’ll just take the train back on Sunday and get a taxi back to the apartment.”

“What--hey, wait. Hold on.” Now, Victor sounds teary. “I don’t want to fight, remember? I’m not--I’m just trying to look out for you. I--I know I get jealous, and I swear I’m trying, okay? But that’s not what this is.”

Sherlock looks up. The sky is black. No stars, what with the light pollution from London. The moon is a tiny crescent in the sky.

“I just--I know you haven’t done homework in a while, and now you’re missing all these classes? Even if you can ace the finals, these things count. I miss you, of course, and okay, I’m jealous, but--but I get why you’re there. I’m just saying, are you thinking about what’s best for you, too?”

“Not really, no,” Sherlock says. He sighs, cutting Victor off before he can work himself up into another righteous monologue. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I’ll see you Sunday.”

Victor sniffles. Sherlock feels more annoyed than bad, which in turn makes him feel guilty--and then mad about being made to feel guilty, because he is _right_ , dammit. Here, with the Watsons--this is where he ought to be.

“Do you really not want me to pick you up?” Victor asks. He sounds tremulous.

“Of course I want you to pick me up,” Sherlock says. He massages at his temple with his free hand, trying to relieve the tension building there. “You usually see through my bluffs better than that.”

Victor laughs, but it ends in a hiccupy cough. “I love you.”

It’s always nice to hear, even when he’s angry at Victor. “I love you, too. Okay? I’ll text you the details on Sunday.”

“Can you text me before then?”

Sherlock clenches and unclenches his fist. “I’ll try,” he says, and then adds quickly before Victor can start the conversation again, “Bye, Victor.”

He hangs up and releases a long breath, letting his head fall back against John’s house. He’d suspected the phone call would be difficult, what with Victor’s never-ending paranoia about John, but it was worse than he’d feared. He’d been prepared for cajoling, for a little bit of begging, maybe. The fear and pleading and _denial_ , though. Like Sherlock doesn’t know exactly how Victor feels about John and Sherlock spending time alone together. Somehow, Victor couching all his insecurities behind the guise of school makes them that much more intolerable.

Or maybe what is actually intolerable is that Sherlock knows Victor has a right to feel this way. It was only a year ago that Sherlock followed John to London to spy on him and Mary and nearly ruined everything because of his own all-consuming jealousy.

He feels like he deserves the benefit of the doubt, now, but--well, what if he is wrong? Sherlock is confident he is always right, except for those matters that concern his own emotions. What if this is normal and correct, and Victor is right to never trust him alone with John again? Not because Sherlock and John feel that way anymore--they don’t, of course--but because there is no way to undo what Sherlock did, last year. It is a black spot on his permanent record, and there is no way to erase it.

He hears, faintly, the sound of Harry wailing. Time to go back in, then.

Sherlock shakes his head to clear his thoughts. It isn’t time to worry about this, anyway. He’d only stepped outside to make a phone call because Mrs. Watson had told him he deserved a few minutes to himself. She’d sat down on the couch next to Harry and shooed him away.

What Sherlock would have liked to do was go and sit with John, but Mary had come over earlier and the pair of them hadn’t left John’s room in hours. And he’d missed Victor, had wanted to hear his voice, even if he’d known it would be a bit of a fight.

Maybe more than a bit.

“Oh! Sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t realize you were out here.”

Sherlock swings his head to the left to see Mary standing there, awkwardly holding a cigarette. It glows faintly in the dark.

The smoking is a new habit. He would have noticed nicotine-stained fingertips, or constant gum-chewing to cover up bad breath. He hasn’t fallen that out of practice, even if he doesn’t solve cases much anymore.

“Aren’t you training to be a nurse?” Sherlock asks, nodding toward the cigarette.

Mary shrugs. She looks tight and drawn, her usual smile replaced with a frown, her shoulders tense. “Don’t tell John.” She pulls the rest of the pack out of her jacket pocket. “You want one?”

Sherlock hesitates, then nods. “Sure.”

It's been forever since he smoked a cigarette. It's more of a social habit, and if there's one adjective that does not describe him, it's "social." Mary hands him the cigarette, and he places it in between his lips. She cups her hands around the end and lights it, taking a step back.

Sherlock inhales just a little and lets it out slowly. He is relieved he doesn’t cough, as that would have been horribly embarrassing.

He takes another drag, feeling calmer. Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but it’s effective, so he does not complain.

“I started smoking this semester,” Mary says, brandishing the cigarette as she talks. “I know it’s awful, but I’m so stressed all the time, and it calms me down. That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m certainly in no position to judge.”

They stand in silence, both of them puffing on their cigarettes without muttering a word. Mary runs her trainer back and forth atop the same patch of grass. She’s perfectly at ease with him, Sherlock thinks. She’s drained, obviously, and anxious about the situation. He can read her sadness in the way she frowns at the ground, the defeated slump of her shoulders, the way her hand shakes as she takes the cigarette out from between her lips.

But none of these things have to do with Sherlock--she doesn’t feel uncomfortable because of his presence, because he’s been here three days and she is only just seeing John now. It’s so startling to him that he clears his throat, getting her attention.

She glances up, quirking a brow. “Do you need another?”

Sherlock’s smoked his cigarette down to the filter. He drops it to the ground and then stubs it out with his toe. Probably not the nicest thing to do in the Watson’s yard, he thinks, so he bends down and picks it up. Mary watches him, a little amused. Apparently, he’s done something strange, but what else is new?

“Why aren’t you jealous?” Sherlock asks.

Mary squints at him, confused. “Of what?”

“Of me being here, with John.”

“Oh,” Mary says. She squats down and puts out her own cigarette against the ground, smiling at him as she picks it back up and stands with it awkwardly in hand. “Well, because.”

Sherlock frowns. “‘Because’ is not an answer. It clarifies nothing.”

“Because I’m not an idiot?” Mary offers, shrugging. “Did you talk to Victor, is he upset you’re here?”

“A good deduction.” Sherlock sighs, tightens his coat around himself. He usually isn’t so transparent to people. He is not sure how he feels about Mary being able to read him.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m just--practical. If I made John choose, he’d choose you.” She ignores Sherlock’s sharp look. “Not because of any romantic feelings, I know, but because you’re his best friend. You’re more important to him than just about anyone. I can’t compete, so I won’t. I refuse to.”

Sherlock’s head feels strangely fuzzy. His throat is dry. He blinks at Mary and is surprised to find her smiling at him, a bit too large for how serious of a situation they’re in.

“I feel awful laughing right now,” she says, “but god, I wish I had taken a picture of that face. I’d frame it. Send it to your brother, maybe. ‘The time I stumped Sherlock Holmes.’ Amazing.”

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock barely manages the words. The world feels as though it’s been tilted off its axis. Mary thinks that John--that John would choose _him_. Over her? No one chooses him--John certainly didn’t choose him last year, when they were having their problems. Mycroft only tolerates Sherlock because they’re brothers.

Victor would choose Sherlock, maybe. Except Victor still hasn’t told his father about them, has he?

That’s not a fair thing to think, he knows.

“John is a grown up,” Mary says, her smile a little smaller, a little kinder. “I am very confident in his ability to care about more than one person simultaneously. So, I’m not jealous. He loves us both, and that is all that matters.”

Sherlock swallows the lump that’s risen in his throat. “Do you mind calling Victor and explaining that to him?”

Mary laughs again, quieting herself. “He’ll figure it out, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock says. He ignores the part of him that worries Victor won’t. 

“I’m going to go back inside.”

Sherlock holds out his stubbed out cigarette. “Go through the garage, put this in the trash there.”

“Oh, _may_ I?” Mary rolls her eyes, but she does as Sherlock asks. She waves a bit and disappears inside the house, leaving Sherlock outside.

He glances back up at the sky, then fishes his mobile out of his pocket. He writes a quick text, not thinking too hard before he sends it.

_Please don’t worry. SH._

The reply is nearly instantaneous: _Trying hard not to. Promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> want to have a rational convo about why victor's behavior in this chapter is less than acceptable (while, hopefully, still reading as flawed and human rather than evil)? feel free, my dudes. i'm 100% down to talk about that in the comments. you can criticize victor as a character all you want! i don't want to stifle voices/opinions. 
> 
> unless you're just here to shout at me because you're mad that viclock exists and johnlock still hasn't happened again, and then...eh. proceed to [this post](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/post/159704251465/my-reply-to-people-who-hate-my-fanfiction).
> 
> in other news, i have finals in about a month, so i probably won't update again until late december at the earliest. just thought i'd give you a little something while i still can. :) hope you're all well.


	9. Chapter Nine

John can hear Sherlock in his bedroom, even though the door is closed. Sherlock isn’t talking loudly, but his voice is so deep that it travels easily. It’s kind of soothing, actually, to hear the rumbling cadence as he murmurs. John wonders if he’s pacing, or if he’s sitting on John’s bed. It doesn’t matter, but it’d be nice to set the scene in his head, to match the timbre of Sherlock’s voice to a picture.

Ostensibly, John is watching television. In reality, however, he zoned out hours ago. The volume is so low, he may as well have muted it. Harry fell asleep two hours ago, even though it was hardly half eight at night and she did nothing all day. Mum hasn’t sent her back to school yet.

John hasn’t been sent back yet, either.

It’s been a week, and he’s gotten three reassuring texts from Mycroft, insisting he take whatever time is needed. He hasn’t replied to any of them, yet. They make him feel too guilty. John wants to be grateful because he knows his being here, with his mother and sister, is immensely helpful to them.

It’s less helpful to him, however.

John wishes he were far away, were anywhere but where he is. Grief makes days stretch like taffy, and each night when it’s time to go to bed, he feels like he’s so thin, a moment from breaking. He’s so tired, all the time, and yet he can barely sleep. His mind is too full of Harry and his mom to take a rest.

He wishes he were somewhere hot, where he could lose himself in his work, where he could shut off his brain and just do a job. Where he’d be so physically tired that he’d fall asleep, no matter what was on his mind.

He’s so preoccupied thinking about this, that he doesn’t hear his mom when she sinks onto the couch next to him, legs curling beneath her. She looks as tired as he feels, with purple circles under her eyes, and a grim set to her mouth. Her skin is pale.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she asks.

John points toward his room, and for a second they sit together and listen to the rumble of Sherlock’s conversation.

His mother tries to smile, but fails. “Victor again?”

John shrugs.

“Not sure how I feel about that Victor. He seems a nice enough boy, and Sherlock clearly cares about him, but the constant calling just doesn’t seem healthy.”

John considers telling her that he and Sherlock nearly snogged last year, while Sherlock and Victor were together, and that Victor’s jealousy isn’t quite as unfounded as she might think. Or is it unfounded? It’s been over a year.

The thing is—he doesn’t care, really. Not about Victor, not about the fact that Sherlock is on the phone again. He doesn’t care that Mary left two days ago and he has yet to answer any of her texts. He feels like everything is happening elsewhere, like none of this is connected to him. There’s the outside world, and then a thick, impenetrable fog, and then in the dead center of the fog, is him. Nothing can get through to him.

And honestly? Thank God.

It’s been day after day of taking concerned phone calls from friends and family members, of being bombarded with well-wishes on Facebook, by email, by text. Of listening to Harry cry and not knowing what to say. Of trying not to notice the sounds of sobs coming from his mum’s room whenever she tells him that she’s going to go have a nap. Of avoiding sitting at the table because he always sat across from his dad, and now he’ll never sit across from his dad again.

The thing is, he’s barely done anything. He should be helping more. He should go through his dad’s clothes and sort them for donation. He should make follow up calls to the insurance company, he should check in which his dad’s office about his final paycheck, he should be doing so much.

And instead, he’s spent the week watching bad telly and wishing he were anywhere but home. He’s let Sherlock do everything, and Sherlock has done it all without complaint. John has been relying on him so much that it’s not fair. He wishes he could feel guilty for it, but mostly, he feels numb.

He can’t keep doing it, though. He can’t keep relying on Sherlock, or Mycroft, or his mum. But he also can’t help, can’t fix anything, can’t make this shitty situation any less shitty.

“I think I want to go back,” John says, apropos of nothing. His mum turns to look at him, clearly surprised, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. He doesn’t think he can. “I’m just—I’m useless here, Mum.”

John sees her nod out of the corner of his eye. Her head falls onto his shoulder, and he can feel his shirt growing damp. They sit for a few minutes, just quiet. They listen to Sherlock’s conversation die down.

“If that’s what you need, John,” she says, eventually. She sits up and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to go lie down in my room for a bit, okay?”

John nods, stilted. He feels nauseous with guilt. “Okay.”

He stands up and heads to his room so that he won’t be able to hear her cry.

\--

Sherlock is texting furiously when John walks in. He doesn’t look up as John goes to the bureau and changes his sleep shirt for a different sleep shirt. He never got out of his pajamas, earlier, and he was starting to smell a bit rank. He tosses the old one onto his floor and pulls the new one down, tugging at the them. All the shirts here are from college, and he’s put on some muscle since then. They’re all too snug.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock says, finally glancing up. He’s still texting, but at least his attention seems split. “You were talking to your mother, and now you’re upset.”

John shrugs. “I’m upset in general.” 

It’s technically true, but John can clearly see that Sherlock doesn’t buy it. “This is different. Something has happened.”

“Let it go, Sherlock.”

For a moment, it seems like Sherlock will protest, but instead he frowns and remains silent. He stops texting and plugs his phone into the charger near the night stand on “his” side of John’s bed--the side he invaded that first night he came to stay, that he has yet to relinquish. John crawls into bed, resting with his back against his pillows and headboard. When Sherlock starts to sit down, John sits up straighter. He takes the duvet with him and looks down at his lap.

Sherlock stills. “Something is _very_ wrong.” He tries to duck down to see John’s face, but John turns away. “Stop hiding. How am I supposed to tell what’s wrong if you won’t look at me?”

“You could _ask_ me,” John murmurs. He twists his hands into the duvet.

“Boring,” Sherlock says with the kind of sigh that suggests that John is being unreasonable. When John doesn’t reply, Sherlock sighs deeply. “But if you insist. What is wrong, John?”

“I think you should go back to school.”

John forces himself to look up, and now it is Sherlock who won’t meet his eyes.

“I’m so glad you’ve been here,” John continues. The words come easier the more he speaks. “Honestly, you’ve—you’ve done so much. But it’s been a week. More than, even. You should be in Cambridge, you should be at uni, and—”

“I don’t care about uni.”

John frowns. “Don’t say that. That’s a stupid thing to say.”

Sherlock finally looks up, and his face is a strangely blank, far away. He scans John, and though John wants to flinch away, he doesn’t. It’ll be easier just to let Sherlock look.

“You don’t care about me being at uni, either,” Sherlock says, which makes John feel weirdly guilty. He _does_ care, just—abstractly. It’s not exactly John’s top priority, at the moment. Nor should it be, he thinks. A touch of anger kindles inside him. Of _course_ Sherlock’s uni career isn’t the most present thing in his mind. His father just died. 

Sherlock breathes deeply through his nose. “Don’t pretend this is about me at all. This is all about you. You want to go back.”

Sometimes John wishes Sherlock couldn’t read him like a fucking book.

“And if I do?”

“There’s no ‘if,’ John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re miserable here, and you won’t just say it. It’s easier to frame it around me, and what you perceive to be my needs. Well, no thank you, I’m not interested in being your excuse. If you want to go back to Afghanistan, tell your mother the truth. Don’t pretend it’s about me.”

As many times as Sherlock has done this to him, flayed him open without his permission, John can still never be completely comfortable. It’s not always a bad discomfort—there’s often something pleasant about being at the forefront of Sherlock’s attention because John knows that Sherlock would never hurt him with whatever he finds. It is nice to be seen, to be known.

That is, until he has something he’d like to hide, and then it’s bloody inconvenient.

“Can’t you ever just be easy?” John asks, petulant. He folds his arms across his stomach and glares at the wall, but he doesn’t stand up. This is his bed, in his room. If Sherlock’s upset, then _he_ can leave. “Can’t you just—pretend to not know everything all the time, so that I can have some peace? My dad _died_ , Sherlock. Things are hard enough as they are.”

The silence is strange, and when John finally glances over, Sherlock is a million miles away.

“I can’t just—not see it. You know that,” he says, so quietly.

John feels his anger burn out, Sherlock’s quiet voice smothering everything that was kindling inside his chest. He lifts a hand to his mouth and gnaws absently at a hangnail. Sherlock is right, of course—John knows that Sherlock can’t help how his mind works.

But he can help what he says aloud, and he just _doesn’t_. And, god, it can be exhausting.

“You could just keep it to yourself, sometimes.”

John knows the moment the words are out of his mouth that he ought not to have said them. He wants to take them back right away, to apologize because he doesn’t really mean it. He loves Sherlock’s deductions, the way he dissects the world so easily. But there’s another, vicious part of himself that whispers: _well, it’s true, isn’t it_?

Grief isn’t a good look on him, apparently. God, he needs to get out of this house.

Sherlock says nothing. John watches him as he holds entirely still, only his eyes moving as if looking at something John can’t see.

Eventually, his gaze stops roving about, and he glances at John. “I’ll take a cab to the train station tomorrow.”

“No, just—”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock cuts in. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

John drops his face into his hands. “I’m just—I can’t be here anymore, okay? I have to go. I have to get back to my life. I feel like…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t _want_ to finish it. It’s hard enough to live with this emotion that’s constantly rising up his throat, threatening to choke him to death, let alone share it with someone else.

When he finally looks up, Sherlock is frowning, but his eyes look softer. He reaches out and touches John’s knee over the duvet. “I made things harder?”

“No,” John tells him, and it’s the truth. Sherlock did everything John hasn’t been capable of doing, and he did it without question.

But it’s also a lie. Because having someone from whom he couldn’t hide, someone who knew what he needed before he needed it, someone who wouldn’t let him sleep alone even though that’s not a luxury he’ll have when he gets back to real life—it’s just difficult. He never used to mind that Sherlock knew him better than he knew himself, but then, he never had anything he wanted to keep from Sherlock.

He doesn’t want to share this, his grief. It’s big and it’s ugly and it’s all consuming, and if he acknowledges it, it will be real. It will grow so large that it will consume him whole. John thinks of the future and wonders, briefly, if he’s ever going to be truly happy ever again.

Sherlock does just what John asked, and he says nothing. He probably knows—he _definitely_ knows, but he gives John the illusion of privacy. John hates that he has to feel grateful for the farce.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Sherlock says, standing. “And I’ll get a train back to Cambridge tomorrow.”

“You don’t—” John starts, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s fine. I’ll get a later train so we can say goodbye, okay?”

John nods. He feels guilty for how much of a relief this is, especially since he doesn’t know when he’ll next be near Sherlock, see him in person. He’s used way more time than he was allotted before he left, and as much as Sherlock likes to believe that Mycroft controls the universe, John doubts that’s true. He may pay for this later.

Sherlock whispers goodnight from the doorway and then shuts the door behind him. John falls back on his pillow. It’s the first time he’s been alone in days, he realizes, and he doesn’t know when he’ll be alone again. The army isn’t known for its personal space. For a moment, he wonders if he ought to cry—this might be his last opportunity for privacy for a long while. But the tears don’t come, and he doesn’t force them.

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, trying and failing to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just finished my first year of law school! wow, it was super difficult. i am going to try to be a busy little bee this summer and get this finished so that y'all aren't forced to wait for months on end for updates. can't promise it'll happen, but fingers crossed.
> 
> this was very hard to write! grief is the freaking worst. it took me a long time to figure out john's emotional arc for this story (his story arc has been set in stone for literal years), but it came to me the other day, and now everything feels much clearer. i'm excited to keep working on this. hope some of y'all will join me for the ride (it's going to get worse before it gets better) (also, y'all, this is the SLOWEST burn, omg). thanks for reading.


	10. Chapter Ten

Sherlock sees Victor as soon as he steps off the train, leaning up against the lobby wall with his mobile in front of his face. It’s been a week since they’ve seen each other, and Sherlock missed him, of course, but it’s nice to have a moment to look at him when Victor doesn’t know he’s being watched. Victor is nervous—he’s clutching his phone too tight, his brows are drawn together, he’s fidgeting.

He’s wearing strangely nice clothes, as well. Slacks, rather than jeans. And his shirt, a button up, has been pressed. Sherlock watches as Victor goes to touch his hair and then stops himself, shaking his hand out instead. His curls are styled differently than usual—they’re tamer, more conservative than his usual mop.

Victor touches the watch on his wrist, tracing its face with his finger.

Oh, Sherlock thinks.

At that moment, Victor looks up and finally sees Sherlock across the room. He smiles, but it’s a tense, unhappy smile—not the relief that Sherlock had expected. He waves at Sherlock rather than crossing the lobby to meet him.

Sherlock approaches him cautiously. “Your father is here, isn’t he? Why on earth did you bring him to pick me up?”

“I am so glad you’re magic,” Victor replies, his shoulders going round with relief. When Sherlock steps closer, Victor takes a step back. “Not too close. He said he was going to wait in the car, but he might change his mind.”

Annoyance churns in Sherlock’s stomach. They’ve had the coming out fight too often for him to feel this aggravated. Sherlock blames it on his terrible week, and on John for preferring to go back to a literal war zone rather than spend another day grieving with his actual family.

It’s not the time, but Sherlock says it anyway. “We wouldn’t be having this issue right now if you would just tell your father you are—”

Victor shushes him, eyes wide and frantic. He glances over his shoulder as if expecting his father to burst out from behind a crowd. “I know—just, look. I’m sorry. He surprised me this morning. I wanted to text you, but he said it was rude to be on my mobile when he’d come all the way for a visit, and then when we got here, my phone decided it needed to install the bloody update.” He flips his mobile so that Sherlock can see the screen, where the update is currently stuck at 51% complete. “I’ve been staring at it like that would make it go faster.”

Every inch of Victor is taut. It’s the most nervous Sherlock has ever seen him, which is saying something—Victor is not a generally calm individual. He’s always a little fidgety, a little flighty. He’s always moving. To see him drawn in such harsh lines, his jaw set tightly, is unnerving.

“He only let me come to the train station because I told him I’d promised a ride to a …” Victor hesitates over the word. “Well, a mate.”

Sherlock looks down at the floor for a minute, sighing deeply through his nose. All he had wanted was a day to process everything that had happened during his conversation with John last night. He’s not sure how he feels, and in the past acting without considering such things has led to some terrible situations, which he would like to avoid in the future. So, he wants to _think_ He can’t tell if he’s angry, or hurt, or confused, or—fine with it. John needs some space. That’s normal, isn’t it?

Although, John is going through something uniquely horrible. But then, is there any one way to grieve?

There’s a bit of a headache forming in Sherlock’s temples. This is exactly the reason he had wanted a day to think. Instead, he’s going to meet his boyfriend’s father for the first time and—what? Pretend that Victor is straight?

Honestly, has Trevor Senior actually met his own son?

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. It is decidedly not fine, but there’s no time to fight about it now. "I just want to go home.”

Victor bites his lip so hard it goes white around his teeth.

Their flat is a one bedroom, Sherlock realizes. If they go home, then Mr. Trevor will definitely notice that Sherlock doesn’t have a bed. And that Victor seemingly owns two wardrobes for no reason whatsoever. Sherlock resists the urge to shake Victor by his shoulders.

“Don’t make that face,” Victor says, half pleading and half angry. “You know how hard coming out to difficult parents can be.”

“I still did it,” Sherlock argues.

“Because you were _forced_ to! And anyway, not all of us have an older brother with an endless trust fund who can bank roll our entire lives. I want to tell him, okay? I do. But I also want to have the job he’s always promised me when I graduate.”

It’s an entirely fair point, which does not make Sherlock feel any less frustrated. He hates being indebted to Mycroft, but Victor is right. Mycroft will never abandon Sherlock, which means that as much as Sherlock lost from coming out, he never flirted with any real danger. He was never without a support system.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. For a moment, he lets his mind travel away from here, away from Victor and this crowded train station and the inevitable drama. He thinks of only a few short hours ago, when John had driven him to the train station, given him a hug and a quick “thanks for everything,” and then driven away without looking back.

How could John just—cut him out like that? He really thought the two of them were past shutting each other out, that they’d figured out how to talk after last year. But then, this is different than last year, isn’t it? John’s not angry or pining, and neither is Sherlock. No one is heartbroken. So why did John send him away?

God, he should not be thinking about that right now. He imagines a room in his mind that is locked away from the present, but not inaccessible. He shoves those thoughts into it and slams the door shut behind them. He’ll come back to them later.

Sherlock grits his teeth and nods, forcing himself into the present. “Where am I supposed to go, Victor?”

“Can you text Darah, see if she’ll be willing to play roommate for a few hours while I entertain my dad?” Victor’s eyes are large and pleading. He doesn’t step forward, and he doesn’t touch Sherlock, but his gaze feels like a physical weight all the same. “Please?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

\--

They loiter in the lobby as Sherlock texts Darah about pretending to be his roommate. Victor claims that once they’re in the car, his father will not tolerate Sherlock being on his phone, either. Sherlock fails to see how that is any of Mr. Trevor’s business, but Victor looks like he’s about to shake apart from nerves at any moment, so he agrees to play along.

Darah sends back a casual _you’re always welcome to be my roomie, you can replace tom_ , and so Sherlock turns off his mobile and adjusts his bag over his arm.

“She’s in on it,” he says, and Victor nods, looking relieved. 

They head side by side toward the entrance, very carefully not touching each other. Even though Sherlock is not normally very demonstrative, there is something about not being allowed to touch Victor—even this strange, stuffy version of him—that annoys him. It’s been a week, and he wasn’t even able to hug Victor hello.

They cross through the line of cars dropping people off and into the car park, where a Mercedes is idling. It’s not the fanciest car in the lot, but it’s up there. The trunk pops open as they approach, and Sherlock places his bag in the immaculately clean trunk. Sherlock would think it had never been used if he couldn’t see the lines left behind by a recent vacuuming.

He closes the trunk and slides into the back seat.

His first impression of Mr. Trevor comes from his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching as Sherlock slides across the smooth leather of the seat. His eyes are bright blue like Victor’s, but they don’t contain the same kind of warmth. His brows are dark and heavy, his hair curly, and he turns in his seat only enough to offer his hand.

“Victor says you’re a friend from school,” he says, his voice low. His accent isn’t as polished as Victor’s is. “Good to meet you. I’m Henry Trevor.”

Sherlock shakes his hand, not bothering to smile. “Thank you for the ride.”

“It’s not a problem,” says Henry Trevor in a tone that seems to suggest that it is, in fact, rather a problem. He shifts the gear and they reverse out of the space, joining the stream of traffic out of the lot. “Where am I dropping you?”

“He lives with Darah,” Victor says, and Mr. Trevor nods. Apparently, he’s visited enough to know where Darah lives, which is—strange. Because Sherlock is with Victor almost all the time and can only recall Victor going to London to see his father, not vice versa.

They ride in silence for a minute before Mr. Trevor clears his throat. “I hear you’re reading Chemistry?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. He tries to think of something else to say, some sort of idle small talk, but he’s rubbish at things like that. Mr. Trevor doesn’t seem much the type to appreciate it, anyway.

“Good subject. Helpful. Would have loved for this one,” Mr. Trevor motions to Victor in the front seat, “to do something in the sciences, but he never had the head for it. Not maths, either.”

Victor adjusts his seatbelt. “Dad…”

“I doubt I’m telling him anything he doesn’t already know. You’re too sensitive, Victor. Like I always say, you need a thick skin to survive in the business world…”

He keeps going, but Sherlock tunes out his voice because he has decided that he hates Henry Trevor.

There’s something about him that reminds me of Siger, which is—unsettling. But he’s more like an echo than a copy—he resembles Siger only enough to stir the memory of him. 

Siger hates Sherlock. He always has. His earliest memories of his father are of all of his back as he left whatever room Sherlock was in. Mr. Trevor doesn’t seem to hate Victor that way. Certainly, Siger never would have made a trip to Cambridge to check on Sherlock, even if they were still on speaking terms. Plus, there’s the watch. Mr. Trevor gave Victor the watch. One doesn’t part with valuables like that without there being some feeling there. No, it’s not so simple as disliking Victor, who is, after all, the most likeable person Sherlock has ever met.

It’s more as if Mr. Trevor doesn’t see Victor when he looks at him. He sees whatever version of Victor he has built in his head, and when the real life one doesn’t measure up to his imagination, he is disappointed. It makes anger flare hot in Sherlock’s chest.

He tunes back in to Mr. Trevor’s monologue.

“…Cambridge, of course. He was very impressed that you’d managed to do so well, Victor. Close to the top of your class! Not the very top, of course, but that maths requirement wasn’t kind to you, was it?”

Sherlock watches Victor flush and look down at his lap. “No, sir.”

“Well, it’s in the past. You keep your grades up, and you’ll have a job waiting for you after you graduate.”

Mr. Trevor says this as if it is a very magnanimous offer, and Victor beams under the attention. Sherlock leans forward in order to assert himself. The whole conversation has ostensibly been for his benefit, but also, he’s not sure that either of the Trevors remember he exists, at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Trevor, but I’ve just realized—I don’t know what it is you do.” Sherlock pretends to sound eager and blatantly ignores the panicked look that draws from Victor.

It’s mostly a lie. It’s something to do with shipping medical equipment, according to Victor, but he hasn’t offered much information beyond that. It always struck Sherlock as odd that Victor didn’t know more when he was so eager to take part in the family business, but he’d never found the topic especially scintillating, so he hadn’t devoted much brainpower to it.

Now, though, he kind of wants to destroy Henry Trevor for not properly appreciating Victor.

_Are you sure you’re just not frustrated about the things you can’t control and taking it out on someone else_ , a little voice whispers from behind the closed door in his mind. He shuts his eyes and imagines the door, imagines reinforcing it with steel. He doesn’t have time to dwell on John or the Watsons, and apparently John doesn’t have time to dwell on them, either.

He knows he’s being unfair as he thinks it, but it’s difficult to care.

“I work in trade,” Mr. Trevor offers, eyes still on the road. “Mostly, I ship medical supplies.”

The answer, so similar to the one he’s heard from Victor since he met him, throws Sherlock off. It’s as if Victor has always just parroted what he’s heard about the company, and that is—offputting.

“Where do they come from?” Sherlock presses. “And where do they go?”

“Oh, all over.” The car turns into a familiar neighborhood, Darah’s house slowly coming into view. Mr. Trevor pulls to the kerb and then turns and sticks out his hand. Sherlock shakes it, warily. “Good to meet your, Sherlock. Victor has said great things.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock says, smiling stiffly. His eyes dart to Victor’s for only a second, and then he gets out of the car. The boot pops open, and he retrieves his case. When he closes it, the car takes off without so much as a wave.

Sherlock stares after it, watching it shrink into the distance. He can’t quite put his finger on what, but Mr. Henry Trevor is definitely not being honest about something, and it just so happens that Sherlock could use a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all didn't believe me about the updates, did ya!? :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Elliott Smith's "Waltz #2." Listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WL1ly1GMwwc).
> 
> A fun fact about H2HN2N: I sent sureaintmebabe an outline, and when she read it, she responded, "why are you like this." I feel like that's a pretty good summation of this story.
> 
> Updates on Sundays. Missed you all, glad to be back. Tell me your thoughts and visit me on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com).


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